


Role Reversal

by EvalinaPhoenix



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: A Bit Not Good, Angst, Canon Divergence - The Reichenbach Fall, Gen, Holmes Brothers, Hospital, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Reichenbach, Post-The Reichenbach Fall, What Series 3?, angst bat of doom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-23
Updated: 2015-08-23
Packaged: 2018-04-16 18:55:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,596
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4636443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EvalinaPhoenix/pseuds/EvalinaPhoenix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post ‘The Reichenbach Fall’; Sherlock is the one holding vigil. "There's just one more thing, one more miracle, John, for me. Don't be... dead. Would you do that, just, for me? Just stop it. Stop this." Ignores Series 3 entirely.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Role Reversal

**Author's Note:**

> Title: Role Reversal  
> Word Count: 1,527  
> Summary: Post ‘The Reichenbach Fall’; Sherlock is the one holding vigil. "There's just one more thing, one more miracle, John, for me. Don't be... dead. Would you do that, just, for me? Just stop it. Stop this." Ignores Series 3 entirely.  
> Pairings: Johnlock, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson  
> Warnings: pre-slash, angst bat of doom, Mycroft being nice, post-Reichenbach  
> Originally Written: 14th, August, 2012
> 
> Quoted text from the episode: “I was so alone, and I owe you so much. But, please, there's just one more thing, one more thing, one more miracle, Sherlock, for me. Don't be... dead. Would you do that just for me? Just stop it. Stop this.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

Despite what Doctor John Watson and dear Mrs. Hudson think, tea is not a cure-all for any and all of life’s exhausting maladies. Though it seems to be a cornerstone to the occupants of the flats of 221 Baker Street.

There it is, after every shooting or in the wake of adrenaline-laden chases. After every nightmare that haunts the subconscious shadows of one’s gleaming mind palace or blood soaked and sand-gritted recollection. In the sleepy hours of every boring, average, dull day; in that restless silence just before the next exhilarating case...there will always, always be tea.

There comes a sigh from over Sherlock’s right shoulder as his brother nears him. One born of a troublesome combination of concern and exhaustion.

 

Mycroft sets the small Styrofoam cup down on the tabletop Sherlock has his elbows resting on.

There’s steam billowing from the tiny hole in the plastic lid; the scent of poorly brewed black tea makes something ache behind Sherlock’s eyes.

It is not Baker Street tea, the fading scent of chemicals and burnt toast and dust and home that the tea blocks out when he lowers his nose to inhale the scent. Its bleach and disinfectant and the scent that, if it could be bottled, would be named _In the Shadow of Death._

“He’s resting now.” The elder Holmes brother informs him in a quiet voice. An identical cup is in Mycroft’s hand, filled with bitter coffee instead of tea a single deep sniff informs Sherlock.

 

They do not speak further for a time. Sherlock sits, four tables in, two to the left from the entrance of the cafeteria, and Mycroft stands beside him, a sentry to keep out the world that occasionally notices their presence.

A cheerful voice calls for Nurse Brooks on line three over a tinny sounding speaker system and Mycroft sighs again, finally sinking down in the chair beside his brother, umbrella leaning against the table between them.

 

The squeak of the plastic chair almost seems sacrilegious against the tailored suit Mycroft is wearing, the one that is a full size smaller than what he wore the last time the two Holmes shared words. Sherlock’s belt is two holes tighter, his shirt hanging loosely on his already lithe frame.

Sherlock still does not speak, toying with the plastic lid he had pried off the cup. Long, cold as the pavement onto which blood can so easily spill, fingers wrap around the cooling tea. A hint of warmth came from the cup, but no comfort. A taste of home that is ashes on his tongue as he takes a swallow. The noise of distress he makes could be called a sob, were one versed in Sherlockian habits.

 

“Awful, isn’t it?” Mycroft lifts the now tepid beverage in his own grasp, wincing against the unsweetened brew even as he was thankful for the caffeine. “Positively dismal.”

There is still no response from the dark-haired consulting detective. A clutch of fingers, the barest twitch of movement has the cup near to crumpling, a splash of tea spilling over one side and to the table.

Mycroft takes another sip of the sludge masquerading as coffee, does not acknowledge the spilled tea. “It tastes worse than the time you-”

“Stop.” Sherlock bites out the single word. Three long fingers pluck some paper napkins from the battered dispenser and the wasted tea is mopped up.

“Stop trying to make you feel better?” Mycroft gives a twitch of an eyebrow. First concerned, now on to fondly exasperated. “You know I disdain following any orders you attempt to issue to me, brother.”  
  
Sherlock finally looks up at Mycroft. With words beyond him, at the moment, their uneven conversation of words and body language continues in relative silence.

‘ _This...It’s my fault_ ,’ his gaze says to Mycroft. Icy eyes swim with emotions and the clutch of lines that gather at the corners of his eyes speak of grief and exhaustion.

Both brothers ignore the two chattering magpies masquerading as day nurses that sit three tables to the right; the ones that are sharing their lunch break as well as a wealth of hospital gossip.

‘ _Not hardly_ ,’ Mycroft’s expression, a crinkle of nose and pursing of lips, returns in silence. Mycroft slouches a touch in his seat, a frown turning his lips downward at the squeak of the chair.

 

Sherlock folds in on himself in his seat, knobby knees brought up against his chest, shoes perched precariously on the edge of the chair. It should be impossible to sit as such in such a small seat, but he manages. His fingertips steeple together to rest against his chapped lips.

Mycroft lets his eyes briefly roll skyward and sends up a quick silent prayer for patience as Sherlock turns his eyes back to the air between himself and the tabletop, still folded into himself.

  
  
“John would follow you to the gates of Hell and beyond.” Mycroft’s fingers dance over the handle of his umbrella. His words are bit arrhythmic, as he tries not to say too much. “That has not changed in your absence. With you gone, he strives to fill the void you left, use what abilities he has to assist others. He simply no longer has you to keep him from...” He trails off for a moment, fighting for the right words. “Getting into trouble,” he finally settles on. “A situation of your own making, I might add.”

‘ _I never wanted him hurt_ ,’ says the sudden clutch of Sherlock’s shoulders, the restless shift of his whole body in a single brief shudder as he suppresses the urge to rise and pace. His feet press against the floor again, almost fully out of his chair as he moves to stand.

“Stay, Sherlock.” Mycroft lays a gentle hand on his brother’s forearm to stall his departure. It twists something in the elder Holmes’ chest when his brother actually does as told without argument or even token protest.

 

“It _is_ my fault,” Sherlock says, words low and full of self-loathing. A shake of his head denies Mycroft’s immediate attempt to convince him otherwise. The hand still on his forearm give a brief squeeze and pulls away.

“He will pull through,” Mycroft says.

Sherlock does not respond.

* * *

 

A handful of hours later, Sherlock stands at the foot of a hospital bed. Its occupant is one John Watson, looking much for the worse. The metronome beeping of the heart monitor is a gentle balm; it reassures him that his-that John, his blogger, is still here. At least in some form.

It has been a long stretch since Sherlock’s own death-defying stunt and here he was, keeping vigil like the good Doctor had for nearly three years.

 

“John...”

It wasn’t a graveyard over which Sherlock was standing vigil, at least not yet.

Words once spoken to the headstone of a living man echoed through his head. A memory he couldn’t delete, the sound of heartfelt words grating like a silver fork scratched over fine china.  
  
“I was...so alone,” Sherlock began, his voice a hoarse croak against the constriction of emotion. His eyes, bloodshot and dimmed by grief yet to be fully given voice, flicked to the corner. John’s cane sat leaning against the wall, waiting for its owner to need it once more. Someone had been kind enough to clean off the blood. Mycroft’s doing no doubt.

 

Sherlock’s hands were clasped in front of him as he looked at the unconscious man laid out before him. Underneath the kilometers of bandages, meters of tubing, IVs, and several layers of thin hospital blankets was John Watson, hero extraordinaire and foolish risk taker.  
  
“And I owe you so much, John Watson. But, _please_.” His voice broke on the plea. His head pounded with the emotions he fought to keep tumbling out for all to see, to hear. Sherlock took a breath. He straightened his posture, chin going up as he swallowed, throat tight and voice soft. “Please, there’s just one more thing.”

 

Sherlock tuned out the hushed conversation as Mycroft pulled the door mostly-shut between Mrs. Hudson and the hospital room. He tuned out Mrs. Hudson’s furious whisper as well. Hers was a none-too-quiet expression of her ire, but she wasn’t shrieking as she took in the younger Holmes’ profile though the small window.  
  
“One more thing, one more miracle, John, for me.” Sherlock moved around to the side of the bed, sinking into the chair still warm from Mrs. Hudson’s previous occupation. “Don’t be...dead.”

One of Sherlock’s hand slowly inched out over the bed, hovering just over the hand with the IV protruding from it. “Would you do that just for me?” Sherlock asks in a whisper. “Just stop it. Stop this.”

John’s heart rate skips for a moment as Sherlock cradles the doctor’s hand in his own. While he doesn’t wake, there was movement, a spike, a sliver of hope that worms into the heart that it is said Sherlock does not have.

“ _Please_ , John.” Sherlock says this aloud, firmly, watching for another spike, another sign.  
  
Both Mycroft and Mrs. Hudson turn away from the door. One pulls it the rest of the way shut, fierce faces deterring anyone that may dare to try and converse with them. For now, they are a pair of silent sentinels. In the room, Sherlock simply stares at John, eyes bright with tears he doesn’t know if he can shed. For now, Mrs. Hudson is content with her place being taken at the good Doctor’s bedside.

 

The heart monitor beeps on, slowly. And Sherlock simply waits.

* * *

_End._

 

**Author's Note:**

> Oh my GODS. Okay, so this was originally written and saved on 14th, August, 2012. I re-found it when I got access to my old Dropbox account two days ago. I've kind of been flipping out.  
> And yes. 2012. That is three years ago, and a couple of days. Holy heckadoodle.  
> Why am I posting this now? Because I want to? Honestly, I don't know why I'm posting this now. I've kind of felt off my writing game for a while now, and I'm trying to get back into it.  
> As always, mistakes pointed out are appreciated. Kudos and comments make me dance with glee.  
> Let me know what you think, please! <3


End file.
